


4 people who watched and the one who intervened

by Lyrae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bad Parenting, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Dammit Jim, Episode Fix-It: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Hurt Jim, Hurt Jim Moriarty, Jim Has Issues, Jim Moriarty Lives, Kid Jim, Kid Jim Moriarty, M/M, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, POV Jim Moriarty, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24277927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae/pseuds/Lyrae
Summary: Or the four times people watched as James Moriarty was hurt and the one time someone intervened before it was too late.
Relationships: Jim Moriarty & Carl Powers, Mycroft Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	4 people who watched and the one who intervened

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> It's almost one in the morning, I re-read this a few times but I can't promise there won't be any mistakes or grammatical oddities... 
> 
> I'll try to fix it later if I see some, but enjoy!

Jim is 7, small and spry, filled with energy like only children can be and there's a pretty butterfly fluttering near the highest branches of the tree, diving between the leaves before finally landing on the wood. 

It's not like he particularly cares about the bug, but he's bored and he thinks it could be interesting to study the wings and the vibrant pigments. 

He looks back, meets the half-lidded eyes of his mother, currently reading some kind of magazine in her chair, and begins climbing. 

No voice orders him to stop, no one tells him to be careful, so he isn't. 

Jim grips the branches, trying to find where he needs to place his fingers to get higher, and hurries upwards, fearing that the butterfly might fly away if he is too slow. 

He only stops when the bug is right above him, when he only needs to reach out to catch it… 

Many things happen at once. 

He extends his hand, only holding onto the trunk with his other arm, the butterfly is scared by the sudden movement and escapes, while the child, surprised by the departure of his target, flays in the air for a second before losing his footing and falling head-first towards the ground. 

Fortunately for him, he manages to stop his plummet. 

Unfortunately for him, it's at the cost of his wrists.

Jim violently impacts with the ground, screaming when he feels something snap. 

He doesn't cry though, because his mother gets annoyed when he cry and she says it's completely useless. 

He doesn't cry but he turns moist eyes towards the woman, waiting for her to come and help him, whisper sweet nothings in his ears and hug him close. 

She simply looks up from her magazine when she hears the scream, seemingly makes sure that he is not dead, and sips her tea before going back to her reading. 

Bones mend, summer ends, later that year, she unfortunately puts too many sleeping pills in her favorite drink. 

Jim watches as she cries out, as she struggles on the ground when she realises what's happening, as she slowly becomes too weak to move and starts choking on her own vomit. 

He watches and says nothing, he simply walks towards the coffee table, making sure not to step into the puke, and takes the magazine lying next to the mug. 

When the room is finally silent, he waits for an additional 5 minutes and then calls the police. 

\---------------

  
  


Jim is eleven, he doesn't hunt butterflies anymore nor does he thinks about his mother. 

She's dead, but that doesn't change his life much, now it's just a nanny ignoring him instead of a blood relation, so it really doesn't matter, does it? 

What matters though, is Carl Powers and his clique of idiots, not because they are friends, it's not like they have anything in common, but because Carl is the worst kind of moron and he absolutely abhors Jim. 

He isn't quite sure what caused this hatred in the first place, maybe it's his sharp tongue or his eyen sharper eyes, maybe it's the way he finishes everything long before anyone else or how he corrects the teachers, maybe it's simply because he is too quiet and too smart, but that doesn't change the fact that the loathing exists. 

Anyway, the class just ended for the day and he smiles at his mathematics teacher, the only one he actually supports. She's not particularly smarter than the others, but she knows that Jim gets everything she says and even more, so she doesn't try to slow him down and actually gives him enough work to do. 

She's… _nice_. 

Carl pushes him out of the way when he passes next to him, almost making him fall, and the smaller glares at the other, ignoring the way the gang of idiots laugh at his reddening face. 

He waits for a bit before leaving, hoping that they would get tired of waiting for him at the exit and simply give up, and his teacher talks with him about the additional exercises he had to complete, asking if they were enough. 

The conversation turns into a full blown discussion about the use of mathematics in astronomy but Jim ultimately needs to leave when the older woman tells him gently that she also needs to go back home. 

He nods, grins, and dashes outside, skipping merrily. 

He doesn't even have the time to take two steps out of the school's yard before the first kick lands. Still engrossed by his own thoughts, he doesn't notice the trainers sticking out from behind the corner before they connect painfully with the back of his knees, sending him sprawling on the ground. 

They don't even bother using their hands, shoes are pretty convenient when the target is on the ground after all, so the only thing he can do is curl up and try to hide his face beneath his arms. 

At some point, Jim looks up, hoping that his teacher would see him and stop the others, but he catches her looking straight at him. 

There's an instant of silence, her lips move soundlessly before forming a thin line. She says nothing and walks away. 

A few months later, Carl Powers drowns in the pool during the swimming competition, thousand of air bubbles breaking the water tension as he struggles uselessly, and this time again, she says nothing. 

She dies a few weeks later when a fire completely destroys her house. 

Jim watches, ember and brimstone reflecting in his dark eyes, and in his cupboard, a pair of black ballerinas joins Carl Powers' trainers. 

  
  


\--------------

Jim isn't quite sure of how old he is right now, he isn't even sure what this meeting was about, but what he does remember, is taking a heavy hit to the head. 

It is quite unfortunate isn't it? 

At least it explains the lapse in his memory. 

As his vision gets clearer, he starts remembering where he is and exactly why his face is becoming a very close acquaintance of the burgundy's carpet. 

_Burgundy…_?

Maybe it's more of a maroon? 

He squints, his eyes trying uselessly to focus. 

Oh. 

The carpet is amaranth, not _burgundy!_ That's just the colour of his blood soaking in! 

Which is probably not very good but at least now he knows right? 

Jim is 27 and he's bleeding out on a damn rug. 

Well, bleeding out might be a strong word, he's hardly going to die of an haemorrhage even if no one attends to his head wound, but it still hurts like hell and if his contemplations about the colour of the floor are anything to go by, he's at least mildly concussed. 

Not good. 

How did that happen? 

Simple. 

James Moriarty is known in the criminal world now, he's been there for years already and still, he's like some kind of urban legends to most, he pays well, he charges even more, but he _doesn't exist._

It worked well, had worked well in the past and would have still worked well in the future if he hadn't gotten himself in this kind of situation. 

One might argue that he wasn't to blame for his current predicament, that he had done everything there was to do, picked a bodyguard, a false identity and even the scenery, everything to ensure that he would be safe, but Jim knew the mistake was his. 

He should have never trusted anyone in the first place. 

Oh, he hadn't trusted his clients, he had miscalculated, that was true, but not _that_ badly, no, the problem was that he had trusted his bodyguard and that the man was very obviously a traitor seeing as he had tried - and probably managed, his memory was a bit fuzzy - to knock him out. 

Now, he just really hopes that he will survive today just so that he can wipe the smug smile the man had sported before hitting him. 

People tend to think revenge isn't a morally acceptable motivator, but Jim couldn't care less about morality right now, and he found years ago that spite _is_ a really good reason to stay alive. 

At some point during his inner musings, the traitor's new colleagues had arrived, asked about the consulting criminal and then left again when they had seen him sprawled on the ground, taking his ex-bodyguard with them. 

_Really_? They are stupid enough to leave one James Moriarty, even if he looks unconscious, alone in a room unsupervised without even bothering to tie him up? 

_Amateurs_. 

Jim is more than annoyed when he realises these idiots still managed to injure him, but he quels his rage, bides his time, and waits until the room is clear to make his move. 

Information starts flooding into his brain as he slowly remembers what happened, his mind piecing the scene back together. 

The meeting hadn't even started, they had still been waiting in the antechamber when he was so rudely attacked and left for-

Well, not _dead_ , but knocked out cold. 

If the familiar weight in his pocket is any indication, he still has his phone - _idiots -_ but like he noticed just before he was hit, the walls were made to neutralize the signal which means that he needs to leave in order to get any back-up… 

Two doors, locked, a window, locked as well yet breakable, unprotected, but they are on the third floor and Jim knows a fall from this height would be pretty _unpleasant,_ to say the least. 

He really doesn't have much of a choice however, it's not like he wants to stick around for whatever they have planned. 

...

_Alright_. 

He had been wrong. 

_Again_ , for the second time today. 

The fall isn't what hurts the most, in truth it doesn't even hurt at all, it's like flying in a way and it's rather short, what _does_ hurt however, is the landing, or more precisely the feeling of his leg breaking. 

He impacts with the cold, hard ground, and the bone - _femur? Fibula? Tibula? Usually he would be able to determine that pretty easily, but right now his mind is a little frazzled -_ just snaps, and it _hurts_. 

Jim knows pain, but without the cloth currently filling his mouth, the one he used to protect his fist when he broke the window - _hit the weakest parts near the corners and hope no one hears the sound of glass breaking-_ his scream would have been pretty loud. 

Accessing the damages quickly - _open fracture of his right tibia, the bone is sticking out of the skin and his left ankle is probably broken too -_ he thanks the shock and the adrenaline currently stopping most of the pain and takes out his phone, immediately calling back-up before dragging himself in an alley and waiting. 

After a few minutes, he is carefully laid down on a stretcher by his team and the last thing he remembers is snarling an order to take the traitor alive. 

When he wakes up a few days later, after the surgery to salvage his legs is over and the painkillers are mostly out of his system, he learns that the traitor was caught and thrown in a cell. 

Cameras are set up, beatings are given and he watches, noting with satisfaction how screams tear through the man's throat when his bones are broken. 

They start with the fingers, then the toes, before moving to bigger bones, fibulas, tibulas, femurs… 

When they are done with the legs, they take the time to bust his kneecaps before continuing with his arms. 

By the time they finally break his neck, his ex bodyguard is mangled beyond recognition, bones jutting out of the skin, having sometimes splintered inside his skin, sharp fragments digging into his muscles. 

By the time they finally break his neck, he doesn't even have the strength to beg for death anymore, but Jim grants it nonetheless. 

\-------------

Jim is 35, and in 8 weeks he'll be free. 

8 weeks, 56 days, 1344 hours or 4838400 seconds. 

_Tic tac, tic tac,_ he counts in his head again and again, _60 seconds make a minute and 60 minutes make an hour, tic tac,_ time passes and he _waits._

He let himself get caught by the Ice Man, or Antarctica like his high placed " _friends_ " call him, but the man knows as much as Jim does that the criminal won't stay there indefinitely. 

He also knows very well that he won't obtain anything from him, and yet, here he is, in the bowels of the some nondescript building. 

8 weeks. 

After that, his failsafes will go off and the whole world will burn starting with Sherlock Holmes and his little _pets._

Mycroft doesn't want that, neither does the government, so Jim knows very well he will be out before the two months are over. 

If the other hadn't been this stubborn, the whole affair could have been over after a few hours, Mycroft would have gained information about some unimportant parts of the web, the criminal would have known everything there was to know about the only consulting detective in the world and that would be it. 

Defeats the whole purpose of being kidnapped right? 

According to the Ice Man, yes, and that is why he is still where he is, sitting in that cold chair, battered, bruised, yet still grinning maniacally. 

The other must have been aware that his little techniques wouldn't affect Jim, that his mind palace would protect him from the blows raining on his body, from the icy water they poured on his face, from the electricity that coursed his veins. 

They could do everything and they had _tried_ everything, from sleep deprivation to starvation, using experimental drugs in an effort to make him talk, hurting him as most as they could without crippling him permanently, without leaving any irreparable damages to his body, but nothing ever got to him. 

_And nothing ever would._

Mycroft never came, Jim hadn't seen him in his cell even once, but he knew he watched, knew he was always there, silent, observing his every reaction through his monitor, cataloging his moods and his quirks. 

_Big brother is watching you._

He would laugh if the situation was any different, but he chooses to stare at the camera instead, knowing the other will find the emptiness in his eyes disconcerting, knowing he will zoom as much as he could in an effort to find a hint of emotion in the dark marbles. But he won't, he won't because there is simply nothing to find. 

Sometimes, Jim knows that Mycroft isn't behind the monitors anymore, knows that he moved and that the only thing still separating them is the one-way mirror, so he stares there instead, completely sure that the man is currently standing just a few meters away. 

Maybe he's crazy, maybe he's looking at nothing and the Ice Man is still watching the camera's footage, comfortably settled in his father chair, but he finds himself doubting that. 

_Tic tac, time is dribbling by._

He doesn't have a choice anymore, they both know who's in the position of power even if Jim is the prisoner. 

At the end of the seventh week, Mycroft Holmes enters his room, as cold as he always is, tailored three-piece suit hugging his frame, and Jim doesn't talk, doesn't even smile, he just stares like he stared at the cameras, places an abyss in front of the ice. 

There's a pause, the two men waiting for the other to start, silently challenging, knowing that the first to talk will be the loser-

The Ice Man sighs and speaks up 

In the end, Mycroft is the only person he won't kill in his game with Sherlock, the only person he won't even threaten because it's so much better to watch him live on and destroy himself with his guilt. 

It's delightful, all of it, the minute twitches, the way his facade breaks ever so slightly when Jim's questions probe deeper, get more personal, how he continues to answer cooly, recounting his brother's childhood so clinically he might as well have been talking about a perfect stranger. 

It _'s beautiful._

_Tic tac,_ the week ends, Mycroft is defeated and the consulting criminal leaves in his Westwood suit, leather soles clacking against the concrete floor. 

  
  


He will _destroy_ him. 

He won't kill him like he killed his mother, his teacher or the traitor, no, that would be too easy, too _plebeian_ , but he's going to make him wish he was dead. 

Jim looks at the sky for a second before closing his eyes, soaking in the sun. 

_Tic tac,_ now it's just him, Sherlock and their final problem. 

* * *

* * *

Jim is 35, tired, and currently shaking hands with one William Sherlock Scott Holmes. 

He knows that there is only one last thing to do. 

The gun is heavy in his left pocket, heavy in his hand, and it will probably be heavy in his mouth too. 

_Not for long_. 

Jim smiles, the warmth of the other's hand seeping into his cold skin, and his left fingers place themselves, ready to pull the trigger. 

He wonders for an instant whether or not Sherlock sees anything amiss, if he remembers the feather light touch the criminal left on his shoulder before pulling away, if he can hear the anticipation in his voice, if he sees his left hand twitching inside his pocket. 

Words are spoken, thrown together and then delivered to the world, permeating the rooftop's air with their heaviness, things are decided and then put into action. 

A hand brushes against fabric, grasping Death, and another stops its course, stops the scythe before it is brought down on its target. 

No words are exchanged, not even a whisper, Sherlock stares into his eyes, solemn, and Jim stares back, loses himself in the blue depths. 

_Blue_? Not really. 

Oceans morph into infinite forests, into skies without limits, and Jim doesn't know whether he wishes he was a fish or a star, a bird or simply a man drifting into the endless abyss of his pupils. 

Sherlock takes out his phone, hands it to him. 

"Stop the snipers. "

The voice is soft, the deep baritone mixing with the sounds of the city, but after the long silence, it feels deafening. 

It feels like it is the first time someone ever talked to him. 

Sherlock doesn't say please, he isn't begging on his knees nor does he seems particularly scared, but his hand his warm against Jim's fingers, heat radiating from his very being, and the criminal finds himself reaching for the phone. 

A few lines of code, letters and numbers thrown together, his thumb hovers over the button, then hit _send_. 

It takes only a few seconds, nothing in the great scheme of life, but somehow these seconds feel like eternity now that he knows he should have been dead by now. 

Sherlock is holding the gun, loosely, carelessly, and Jim can't help but wonder whether or not he will shoot him. 

His friends are safe after all, the snipers were called off and his failsafes were deactivated earlier to accommodate his suicide. 

He should kill him now, he has no reason to keep him alive. 

Instead of shooting like any sensible person would - but who said any of the Holmes was a sensible person? - the detective speaks again. 

"Thank you. "

Jim laughs, he laughs and whirls on his heels like a child, his hands raised to the side as if his words are targeting some higher entity instead of the man in front of him. 

"And now what? " he asks, acidic and mocking, cyanide filling his mind and spewing out of his mouth, numbing his tongue. 

Sherlock's friends are safe, Sherlock himself is safe, and Jim is left adrift. 

His nails sink viciously into the soft skin of palms, drawing blood, and the sudden pain is enough to ground him. 

He could jump, he thinks, smiling to himself, either off the roof or on the detective in an effort to get the gun, he could jump and _end it all at once-_

And then warm hands are holding his again, pulling away his fingers to reveal crescent-shaped marks. 

"Now I will need to leave London until things settle down and you're coming with me."

That is enough to stop Jim's thoughts in their tract, enough to stop everything if only for a second. 

"I'm sorry, _what_? " 

The other grins, or smirks more exactly, impossible eyes glinting beneath lowered eyelashes. 

"I'm alive, you're alive, I need to leave because of our games-" _'our, not your',_ the criminal notes but doesn't interrupt "-and I can't possibly allow you to stay in London while I'm away, that wouldn't be fair would it? And do you really want to win this easily when you're so bored? " he stops, leaves a silence and then- "Wouldn't going with me be the greatest distraction of them all? "

It makes no sense, Jim decides, his explications are absolutely ludicrous and yet, he doesn't jump, doesn't abandon the conversation or the detective. 

"Then you think I won't be bored with you? "

Their fingers are not intertwined, but blood smears between their palms and that feels far more intimate. 

"I don't think, I _know_. " 

The smirk morphed into a soft smile at some point and Jim hates it. 

He _hates_ it. 

But maybe what he hates even more is the sly grin creeping on his own face, the way he subconsciously answers the other, how their hands are still touching even now. 

"Alright. "

It feels like admitting defeat, like biting on a cyanide pill and waiting for the poison to eat him away, like dying in a dark ditch. 

Death closes its bony clutches over his soul, swing his scythe and claims what is _His_ for the taking, yet the happiness on Sherlock's face feels like breathing for the first time. 

"Alright. " he repeats, more to himself than anyone " _Alright_. "

  
  


They leave the rooftop after that, leave the hospital and then England, leave everything behind except for the other. 

  
  


Jim is 35, he's still a consulting criminal, still himself, but that doesn't mean that he's alone. 

Sherlock smiles, holding out his hand like the criminal had on the rooftop, and Jim doesn't think twice before taking it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all liked this :)


End file.
